


And Destiny may Sing our Tale

by thefrenchmistake



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:22:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24593737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrenchmistake/pseuds/thefrenchmistake
Summary: It is not something Finan planned, in all honesty. It’s not something he ever thought was in the cards for him.It is not something he planned.Sigtryggr is a practical man, with a mind made for battle strategy, for planning ahead and seeing the enemy coming miles away.
Relationships: Eadith/Finan (The Last Kingdom), Sigtryggr Ivarsson/Stiorra
Comments: 12
Kudos: 90





	And Destiny may Sing our Tale

**Author's Note:**

> The last season was INSANE, and they finally gave Finan some well-deserved love interest, and gave Stiorra well-deserved screen-time. Of course, as they're not canon yet, here goes nothing !  
> Hope you enjoy.

It is not something Finan planned, in all honesty. It’s not something he ever thought was in the cards for him.

He is a warrior, he is a fighter, a wanderer roaming the lands alongside Uhtred, and settling down somewhere with a lady is not something for him.

Of course, like any other man, he has needs, which he fulfills in passing through some villages, seducing one girl or another with his dashing smile and general good looks.

And then…

Eadith swirls in graciously with hair like the setting sun and tongue sharpened by wit, and he’s fucked.

Because afterwards she slits a man’s throat and risks her life to save theirs, and yeah, he knows he’s fucked to no end when blood rushes back to his brains and all he can see is her worried face above him and the curtains of strawberry blond hair falling around them like some fancy silk found in castles.

They don’t have time for anything that isn’t saving the damn kingdom, like always, so they don’t talk until he notices her on the ground of the battlefield, and it is the first time in his goddamn life that he pleads a fucking Dane, of all people, to reach her and get her the fuck out of here.

She whimpers in pain, but she doesn’t cry, simply breathing painfully through her teeth. He rushes to a house, beats on the door like a madman and demanding hot water and bandages. Then he gets her to sit, and when the bandages arrive, he gets her talking, because this will be painful and he’d rather she has a distraction. There is blood on her arm and on her waist, he’s replacing the ribs she misplaced when she was getting fucking stomped on, and yet she still cares about her family’s honor, still cares about something else than herself.

It breaks his sorry excuse of a heart, this girl with sad eyes that have seen too much of a too cruel world, with a pale skin that must have been marked with bruises for too long, with a dejected voice. It breaks his heart, yet she does not seek pity nor protection, she seeks respect and honor and a place to belong.

And damn, does he want to give that to her.

But now is not the time.

They take the road back to Coccham, once Uhtred has said his goodbyes to his children and to the Lady Aethelflaed. Finan is concerned about Eadith, whose ribs are still hurting her and keeping her movements stiff and painful. He offers her to ride on his horse, which she accepts.

She is warm against his front, leaning back slightly so she can be more comfortable and still not crush him with all her weight. He tells her what happened in detail, delighted to make her laugh with his comments, enjoying the tremors of her body when she chuckles, low, like she hasn’t learned yet how to be free and wild.

He intends to teach her.

They halt for the night. While Sihtric and Uhtred go chop some wood for the fire and Osferth fetches some clear water, Finan helps Eadith dismount the horse and sits her down next to where the campfire will be so he can take a look at the bandages around her mid-section.

He has requested the royal family’s healer give them some wrappings and something akin to ointment to help with the pain and the bruises that are probably dotting her skin.

“You have some healer roots, or did you learn all that when I was gone ?” She mocks.

“I was worried about you, we all were,” he says gruffly, continuing his task.

He feels her gaze on the side of his face, but looking at her now would make him lose his trail of thought and screw up the bandages, so he keeps his eyes focused.

“You were ?”

She sounds so disbelieving he snorts.

“Eadith, you saved our lives, the children’s, you volunteered to go inside Dane territory when you had no obligation to. You saved Aelfwyn. You’re a damn hero, but you’re not trained like warrior. Of course we were worried.”

She stays quiet for a while, gripping his arm harder when he tightens the wrappings around her ribcage.

“I don’t believe someone has ever said that to me.”

“Your brother loved you, did he not ?”

“In his own, complicated manner. He sold my body, used me for his own ambition. I...”

She exhales shakily, visibly frustrated with herself.

“I don’t think I’ve ever known kindness from men until you came along, all of you. You taught me what family means more than my brother ever could.”

“Does that mean you’re staying at Coccham ?” He can’t resist but ask.

“Yes. Where else would I go ?”

And when she says that, it doesn’t feel like she’s dejected, like it’s an obligation due to the fact she has nothing and no one left in the world. No, it sounds like it’s her choice, and she is glad to make it.

Hours later, when the night has come, she falls asleep with her head on his thigh and his fingers inexplicably having found her neck. The reason for this is entirely out of concern for her health, of course, so she avoids sleeping in a bad position on her ribs; no matter that the fire seems colder than the warmth of her slender body and dimmer than the blazing strands of hair scattered on his lap.

“It’s about time,” Osferth chimes up in a tone that doesn’t please Finan at all.

“What ?”

Sihtric leans in with a smile deserving of the slap the Irish’s fingers crave to give.

“We were beginning to think you would die before you’d tie yourself down.”

“I’m not tied.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Fuck off, both of you.”

Osferth crooks an eyebrow at him, and this boy has learned far too much from them.

“We were just concerned that the Irish genes made it impossible to…”

“Don’t fucking finish that sentence.”

They snicker like children, and even Uhtred has a smile on his brooding face.

“Fuck off,” he repeats, because what else is there to say ?

They’re not exactly wrong.

(He wishes Father Beocca were here to slap them both on the back of the head, but he would have probably laughed along).

In Coccham, Uhtred takes far too quickly to wallowing in the sadness that comes with abandoning the love of his life to the Witan of Mercia -and his son to a God he does not believe in- and his daughter to a Dane he knows nothing of- so Finan naturally offers his house for Eadith to stay in, until she gets the home she longs for and a semblance of coin.

She seems so out of place in it, and yet perfectly at home.

“Are ya sure you wanna stay here ?” He inquires when she moves around the room, elegant fingers drumming on the wooden furniture. “It’s not good for your reputation.”

“What reputation ?” She chuckles, sending him a glance. “I’m the whore of a dead king and the sister of a traitor fallen in disgrace.”

“I just don’t want you to ruin your chances at a new beginning.”

“Finan. This is exactly where I want to be.”

Fucking hell.

Her eyes burn with certainty and sheer willpower, and he does not think he’s ever liked someone quite this much. Finan merely nods and then they set off to the Lord’s house so she can find some clothes, probably, and he can show her around. Sihtric smirks at him in passing and he flips him off (that’s kind of the essence of their entire relationship) which reminds him of the casual aspect of the day. With the beating of his heart and the way he couldn’t tear his eyes of the woman by his side, he almost forgot that this is the first day of a hopefully very long series where he has the chance to share his life with her.

They settle into a nice routine quicker than he expected, and he takes to showing her around the village, further and further each time. Opening up to her is far too easy, be it through wild laughter and jokes when they go fish in the lake and he ends up teaching her how to swim, or through murmurs at the dinner table met with her smile, resembling a piece of salvation he didn’t know he was seeking.

Her presence grows in both the village and his life just as she carves herself a spot in his heart, tucked somewhere warm and safe.

Around two months after their victory at Winchester, the Lady Aethelflaed waltz in Coccham with expectation in her eyes and hope stumbling feverishly from her lips.

She takes the time to dismount and greet each of them, even smiling brightly at Eadith, before she squares her shoulders and marches towards the Lord’s house.

Uhtred comes out before she can reach it and their bodies both halt suddenly while their eyes lock.

It seems the village stops breathing.

Lingering looks and whispered confessions fill the room around lunch that day, the Lady taking Uhtred’s hand in hers when the others sit around the empty fire pit, leaving them at the table alone. Finan can see it from where he is, the utter devotion they display both to each other and to their lands, and his eyes find Eadith, because their love story is a tragic, heart wrenching one, but Finan is lucky enough to have the woman he’s enraptured with right at his side.

He wants to keep her there.

Contrary to Uhtred, he knows he can.

She’s the one to put a delicate hand on his shoulder and ask:

“Can we go outside ?”

He nods without a second of doubt, getting up and following her out with no sound (not that the two leaders would have noticed, too lost in their own world right now). 

Once they are walking away from the village, towards the forest, she turns her bright smile and brighter eyes to him.

“Thank you. I couldn’t stand it anymore, I felt like an intruder.”

“Yeah,” Finan snorts, "they do have that effect on people.”

“I think it’s sad.”

“It is,” he agrees, following her deeper and deeper into the woods.

“Do you think God is punishing them ?”

“I do not see why he would. They both deserve far more than what was given to them.”

“But life is not about deserving,” she whispers, and his heart clenches oddly.

“No.”

They walk the rest of the way in silence, and it isn’t heavy like when he muffles his breath and steps to avoid enemies, it is not the necessary stealth of being sent as a spy, it’s just him and Eadith walking with the whisper of the wind in the trees and in her hair, it’s just her fingers brushing the flowers they pass -he wonders if she’s so enraptured by natural beauty because she never had the chance to enjoy it before- and it’s her laughter when she trips on a root and he rushes at her side.

Once he helped her up and they resume walking, he realizes her hand is still gripping his arm tightly.

He lets her.

She leads him to the lake, except instead of stopping there like everyone does, she pulls him upwards, until they reach the source forming a clear pond hidden by high grass and flowerbeds in the shadow of the tree leaves.

She sits on the edge of the pond, and if she just stretched her leg, the water would touch her feet.

She tucks her legs underneath her, pulling on his arm so he sits beside her.

And suddenly, without warning, between the tweets of birds and the clinking of her bracelets when she moves, she asks:

“Have you ever been in love ?”

He huffs a little chuckle, glances at her sideways. She’s not apologetic in the slightest.

“Have you ?”

“No. I was the daughter of a disgraced father,” she furthers when she notices his puzzled look. “I became a bargaining chip, and then was used as a whore. There was no place for love in my life.”

“In mine either.”

“Why not ? You’ve been so many places, met so many people. You must have come across someone special.”

“Not really. I never looked for it either.”

“Doesn’t it make you sad ?”

“I have a family already, I don’t need more.”

“Perhaps not need,” she ponders, “but wouldn’t it be nice ?”

The sun’s rays sneaking through the high grass hit her hair on the side, creating an odd halo around her head, and Finan wonders if that’s a sign.

That would be the first.

“You’ve never wanted children ?” He bluntly asks, and she could be offended, but she chuckles slightly.

“I told you,” she smiles, “I’m no good with children.”

“That was a damn lie. I saw you hovering over Aelfwyn.”

“And you ? You never wanted some little Irish bastards running around ?” She mocks.

“Nah,” he says, laying back on his elbows. “I would be a terrible father, spending more time at the ale house than with my own.”

“Bullshit.”

He laughs, and she keeps going.

“You cared for Aethelstan, and you had only just met him. You love kids, and you are good with them.”

“Then I guess we are both liars, my lady.”

She shoves his legs good-heartedly, smile blinding and eyes dancing in the sun.

“If you found the man, the one you would marry, would you have his children ?”

She stares.

There is something in the corner of her lips, lingering, and he thinks that with a clue he could grasp it, or at least understand.

She has always been far smarter than him, than all of them warriors, good for nothing but battle. She brings goddamn peace in his life, when it’s been nothing but war.

“Yes. I would. If that’s what he wanted as well.”

The day is too fair and her smile too bright, so he closes his eyes lets the sun warm his face as well as her body, when it lays next to him, warms his skin.

He thought he would be the one to lose his head and just grab her to finally kiss her, but he was heavily mistaken.

The day has been rainy and he’s still drying both his clothes and his hair, while her long strands are dripping all over the floor. But it doesn’t matter a bit, because her mouth is stretched in a wide smile, and he gets to tuck away the hair matted to her temples.

He turns away before he can yield to temptation (he has never yielded to anything in his life, that’s hopefully not gonna change now), and turns to the dinner awaiting them.

He taught her how to make the typical Irish meal, and it only lacked a few herbs which led them to run under the pouring rain. Sitting down, he thinks that all is good in the world. And then Eadith sits down heavily right next to him instead of on the other side of the table, fidgeting, face tight in frustration.

“Can I ask you a question ?” She asks in a strained voice.

He raises his eyebrows, leaning back in his chair a little so he has a little room to think about something other than the way the candles illuminate her gracious features and how her hand seems to hover above his thigh.

“Sure."

“Are you waiting for my permission ?” She snaps, not avoiding his eyes one second. "Here, you have it, maybe you can finally kiss me now.”

He is bewildered for a moment, at loss perhaps for the first time, before bursting out laughing, taking a few steps towards her.

“Permission ? More like an order, my lady.”

“Will you just kiss me, for Christ’s…”

He silences her before she can elaborate further, preferring much more the flavor of her lips to the sound of her insults.

She tastes like rain and fresh flowers, grass and lemony drops. He’d be content if that was the only thing he could ever feel on his tongue.

Eadith kisses brutally, expectant and impatient, and he likes it so much, the contrast between her gentle ways and the eagerness of her mouth and her hands, pressing on his neck before sliding down and down, untying every piece of cloth he wears.

He’s not complaining.

Especially not when his own fingers come untie the back of her dress, accidentally tangling in the strawberry blond strands, and then gripping them tight to pull her closer.

They stumble to the bed without losing contact, clothing discarded in the room without a care, and she’s the one to pull him down over her. He wastes no time to trail his mouth down, on her neck where he feels her blood jump and run wild, on her breasts, all the way to her navel. She shudders and shivers, but is otherwise silent, lightly threading her fingers through his hair or down his cheek.  
On kissing her stomach, he looks up at her.

She looks like a goddess, one of Uhtred’s, with her ivory skin and pink lips and wild hair and striking blue eyes. A goddess of Love or War, he couldn’t say.

“Finan ?” She says, and her tone holds all the exasperation and fondness in the world.

“Yes ?”

“I am not a preserved.”

He understands the meaning behind her words yet doesn’t rush and simply grins up at her.

“But has anyone ever gone down on you, eh ?”

She crooks an eyebrow, skin gleaming under the gentle light, and spreads her bent knees.

He laughs, places kisses between her breasts until he feels her shiver, and then his hands discover the thinness of her waist, the muscle of her thigh, the definition of her calf.

No wonder the Mercian asshole (God rest his soul) went crazy over her.

He discovers more and more, until his beard scrubs her inner thigh and he feels the tremors rippling through her body deliciously, until he can taste her and exist only in this moment.

It is so odd, really, everything about this; knowing he doesn’t have to leave in the morning, knowing he actually cares about the woman shivering under his ministrations, wanting to stay here and not go to war at the first sign of trouble.

It is odd, and it is good. And when she rolls them over and her fingers trace his scars while her lips trace the definition of his chest, he can’t help but lick his lips and caress her hair.

“Eadith ?” He whispers, and she answers against his sternum:

“Yes ?”

“I am not preserved.”

Her loud laughter is cut off by his hand wrapping around her jaw to pull her up and kiss her again and again, hoping to taste the sweetness of her joy and keep her right here, in his bed between the furs and the sound of raining outside.

Her long limbs are warm against his body glistening with perspiration, and yet he never wants to move.

He plays with her hair, staring at the ceiling and listening to the rain outside, thinking about the way she smiles at him and trails her fingers on his chest and chuckles and move above him and grip his hair when he rubs his beard against a sensitive area. It makes him breathe easier, for some reason.

She makes it easier.

“Will you make an honest man out of me ?” Finan asks gruffly, bluntly, because he’s rough where she’s soft, he is calloused where she’s smooth. She tilts her head up and laughs at him, peppering his face with kisses.

“Of course. Nothing would make me happier.”

He rolls her over, and shows her that maybe one thing could.

*****

It is not something he planned.

Sigtryggr is a practical man, with a mind made for battle strategy, for planning ahead and seeing the enemy coming miles away. He knows he has the advantage here in Winchester, because he cares for no one in danger, as opposed to the King whose whole family is held hostage.

So it is an astounding surprise, to say the least, when he finds himself caring for the girl -the woman- locked in the library.

She seems both too fragile and too fierce, torn between her fear and her bravery, and it is striking at a chord inside, it makes him focus on what she says and hopes and wants, and it is dangerous but it does not stop him. He wants to know her vision of things and hearing her talk about her father in that specific way enraptures him, because she makes him sound human, which is something none of the Danes ever did.

They all made him out to be this legend, this invincible myth and yet here she is, telling him what kind of man he is, not what kind of warrior. She tells him of her mother and the way he loved her, fiercely and to the death, even as she was a Dane.

After talking for a while, he asks her:

“What about you ?”

“What about me ?” She snaps back.

He smirks.

“You told me all about your father’s travels. What about yours ?”

“I was kept in Saltwic for most of my life, taking care of Aelfwyn of Mercia. It wasn’t exactly freedom.”

“Did you like it ?”

“It was like being a prisoner, unable to move and accomplish what I was meant to accomplish. I just got out of there, and here I am, being imprisoned again.”

“You are not a prisoner.”

She throws him a look so dark he almost chuckles.

“Really ? Then you will let me out ?”

“You are an honored guest.”

Her jaw clenches, as sharp as the glass she tried to dig in her face, that first day.

He thought her brave then, too.

“A guest whose head you’ll cut off as soon as it comes to your advantage.”

She has a point, but he went into this war knowing he would not spill unnecessary blood. And so he declares:

“You can trust me, Stiorra. I assure you that no harm will come to you as long as you are in my care.”

“I am a hostage. Stop playing care keeper.”

“I am your ally. Probably the only ally you have in those walls.”

He pushes himself up, leaves the bread he brought in, and exits the room.

Although he kills the man -Eardwulf-for the reasons he declared, he cannot deny he enjoyed every part of it. A man that strikes a defenseless woman, away from her home and her family, is not someone he wants in his ranks.

He goes back to see her after the public execution.

The red mark on her cheek makes his blood boil.

Sigtryggr is not used to that. Anger is a warrior’s doom, he knows that intimately, so why is it running through his veins now, in a way that makes him wonder if he can stop it ?

“Are you alright ?”

She sends him a dark glare, tilting her chin up.

“Of course. He was only drunk, and a coward. If I had a weapon, I would’ve slit his throat.”

“I have no doubt of that.”

“I could slit yours too.”

His lips twitch up, and he does not do anything to hide his grin. Sigtryggr does not see the point in hiding what one thinks, what one believes in. Occasionally, he will let emotions reflect on his face if the situation does not demand another behavior. He knows how to play the game, knows how to conceal and play and mold things and people to his advantage, but he also likes to peel away this mask born of conflict.

With Stiorra, there is no real conflict.

He goes see her every day.

She is entertaining, awfully good at board games, quick to get everything he tells her, and honest enough to make him understand the Saxon ways and doubt some of his people’s. She isn’t afraid to tell him what she thinks and in return she learns he doesn’t ever get resentful or angry with her. He values honesty and courage above everything else, and she possesses both.

On her side, she begins to respect this man and the way his mind works; sharp, quick and extremely clever. He is nothing like Finan or Sihtric or her father, nothing like the impotent Saxon guards or the brutal warriors. He is collected and patient and open to all things.

One time, she bluntly criticizes his strategy and the way some of his people act and he listens to her intently and explains, afterwards, the reason he chose a siege and not an open-ground battle. She exhales through her nose, looks at the window to try and oust the warmth growing within when he looks at her like this.

“You’re not like the other Danes.”

He smiles a little.

“That’s because I come from Ireland; we do not play the same game as your fellow Danes. You’re not like the other Saxons.”

“Because I’m not entirely Saxon,” she replies, wiggling her eyebrows.

Stiorra learned a few days in the siege that he appreciated both honesty and teasing. Right up her alley.

“Don’t I know that.”

She popes a piece of bread in her mouth, still trying not to stare directly at him. Lately, she began noticing things about him, which doesn’t sit well with her considering her father is still fighting heart and soul against Sigtryggr and his troops.

“Why do you come here so often ?” She blurts out, straying from her train of thoughts yet staying close to it. She truly wants to know the reasons behind his long, daily visits.

“I enjoy getting away from the crowd and all the people."

“I am people,” she taunts, unsure.

“It is different with you.”

She narrows her eyes at him despite his little shrug and smirk. He lets himself go more each passing day, lets his face be more open for her to read, lets his body move without being contained.

She likes it.

“Why ?”

“I like it, when you talk to me. You are bright. You are driven by logic, not anger. A true Dane, yet true to your Saxon inheritance as well. You were not afraid to show me the errors of my ways, you were not afraid to speak the truth, yet you always remained loyal. You don’t believe war is inevitable, yet you won’t hesitate to lunge into battle. I admire you, Stiorra of Bebbanburgh.”

This is everything she has ever wanted to hear. Someone finally acknowledging she is destined to something more than guarding two endangered heirs, to something more than a closed house and children’s company. She knows herself, even if she doesn’t know what her destiny is made of.

“Do you know why I started this conflict ?”

Stiorra bites her lip and looks up at his face.

“Maybe.”

His smile widens like it often does when she impresses him or says something he likes (it’s actually one of his most common expression around her).

“There is no war,” she starts, “so clearly your goal is radically different from Brida. You do not wish to kill Saxons and you are far too clever to spill unnecessary blood, which is why a siege is the strategy you chose. You have no interest in killing my father, and you are too smart to be seeking an army that way to get revenge in Ireland. You speak about your home country a lot.”

“So ?”

“You are looking for a new home.”

He exhales a short laughter, blinking at her with more joy in his eyes than she has ever seen.

“Very bright indeed.”

As days pass by, punctuated by occasional threats from Brida always squashed in the egg by Sigtryggr’s comforting steadiness, Stiorra finds herself more and more attracted to this man that is lighting a fire inside.Her thirst for adventure only grows with time, as does her affection for him. She believes he reciprocates the feeling. Sigtryggr and she have not engaged in anything intimate yet, although she is quite sure the time will come, but they have talked about her coming with him, once he has gained the lands he seeks and can offer his people a new home.

She wants to go. She wants to travel, wants to _live_ , and that is what she tells her father, when he comes to her. She will not be a prisoner at Eoferwic, but she will be in Coccham.

This is her choice, one of the first she can make.

Besides, she is glad to go with Sigtryggr.

Settling in Eoferwic is easy enough, although there is a lot of work to do in order to rebuild villages and find roots there. Stiorra likes this land a lot, what it has to give and what it takes. She likes the trees, different from her house in Aethelflaed's estate, likes the different tweets of the birds, likes the new smells and the darker weather.

Sigtryggr comes up to her once they have settled in emptied towns and gotten familiar with the crops, the streets, the muddy courtyard. She just punched a man in the nose for grabbing and threatening a little girl who picked out an apple in the stock, and as she readies herself to bring him down, Sigtryggr gets between them, sending the man on his way with a glare.

His eyes seem to gleam with amusement when he turns to her and declares:

“You are fierce and brave, you have the true spirit of a Dane warrior, but you lack the skills.”

“Then teach me.”

His lips twitch, and she crooks an eyebrow at him.

“Teach me.”

He nods once, and then his sword comes flying on the side of her face and she bends just in time to feel it swish against her hair.

She smirks.

Sigtryggr is an exceptional teacher, patient and smart, his exigence only benefitting her, and in no time she can hold her ground against his warriors. She loves it, the thrill that comes with dodging and punching and swords clashing and the weight of the axe in her hand.

They train every day, then go hunt, and she ties bonds with the people here, bonds that she never had with Saxons. She finds herself missing Aethelstan and wondering how Aelfwyn is doing, but other than that, she does not miss her old life.

The camp is attacked, because people are intolerant and a group of Saxons decided to take matters into their own hands even as they are on Dane lands.

It comes in the morning, without warning. Sigtryggr took some of his men to supervise the construction of walls all around the main cities.

Stiorra hears the screams first, recognizes the sound of steel diving into flesh, and she’s not afraid.

She comes out of the house with a cry spurting out of her mouth and the sword in her hand craving blood.

A man comes at her and she rips his abdomen in half with a swift blow, taking on the second one with a quick slash to the throat. The third one slams his elbow in her face, sending her to the ground, and she barely has the reflex to roll aside before his sword come down where her head was a second ago.

Swirling her weapon in a wide circle in the air so he would step back, she jumps on her feet and rushes towards him, fingers white on the handle.

He dodges the first blow, only groaning when her foot hits his ribs, and then his blade cuts her arm, drawing blood.

It enrages her, suddenly, these men that think they can take and take and kill, and surged by a new flush of anger, she bows down and plunges her sword in his head from under his chin.

The man chokes on blood, red splatters hitting her in the face, and when she finally lets his body drop and turns around, there are some Saxons left, running away.

Stiorra raises her sword and screams a battle cry before rushing after them, Danes following her.

When Sigtryggr comes back, almost all the bodies have been piled up on the outside of the village. She wonders what he’ll do with them.

She doesn’t really care.

Her arm stopped bleeding some time ago, but she’s pretty sure her face is swollen where the guy slammed his elbow, and her ribs hurt every time she bends forward.

Nonetheless, she is so… Thrilled.

She hopes her mother is proud.

Sigtryggr’s eyes land on her as soon as he runs inside the village, and his shoulders seem to sag under relief, but she doesn’t want to call it that. His second in command Tove rushes towards him and explains the situation, and she sees the chief nod before he makes a beeline for her.

Her eyes are rolling before he even touches her face, concern written all over his features.

“Are you alright ?”

“Just a bruise, it’s fine.”

He still checks every part of her, frowning when he notices the cut on her arm, from the shoulder to the elbow.

“We need water to clean that up.”

“This can wait. Give your orders to your men first.”

She holds his stare until he exhales through his nose and turns around to bark orders (search the corpses to know where the Saxons come from, deploy a group to check if there are more and to check the surroundings villages…) and then he puts his hand on her back and nudges her forward.

She rolls her eyes again.

She feels better than she ever has. 

Sigtryggr is methodic in the way he cleans and sews her wounds, using medical expertise she never knew of, and so she asks him what other knowledge he has gained in Ireland.

Sitting on this furred bed in the cold of England, he tells her of their ways, of their boats, of their traditions and the differences in their worshipping of the Gods, he tells her everything he can and more because she is demanding and hungry for knowledge of other countries, other landscapes and civilizations. She is a Dane and a Saxon, and as such she has an open mind cultivated by what she learns.

Sigtryggr admires that about her.

“Thank you,” she says when he is finished with her wound.

“Tove told me you fought well.”

She smiles, the movement making the swell on her cheek more prominent.

“I had a very good teacher.”

“You are a very good student.”

Her hand comes up to his jaw and before he can think, Stiorra moves closer.

With the heat of battle still dancing in her eyes and the perfume of victory wafting from her skin, she is absolutely intoxicating. 

“Maybe you could teach me some more.”

Her bold proposition hits his mouth like a wave of warmth, and her body seems to drum with energy when she comes even closer to bracket his hips.

“I thought you did not want men’s kindness,” he cannot help but tease, her hair brushing his bare arms. It is longer than before, far longer, and he likes it a lot (she doesn’t braid it, always lets it fall all the way to her hips, and he’d lie if he said he did not enjoy the sight).

“It’s different with you,” she smiles coyly, reminding him of another time in Winchester.

“Why ?”

“I like it, when you touch me,” she whispers against his lips, not kissing, barely touching. Shared breathing more than anything else, and yet his skin tingles.

“It feels good,” she adds, feeling his jaw work under her fingers, readjusting her position in his lap. “And I want you to do it some more.”

The kiss is not rushed nor urgent, as he expected from her, but slow and patient, their lips moving at a soothing rhythm that makes his body mellow and soft. She feels so good, her skin warm under his hands, her lips synonym of temptation, like she belongs right there with him.

The wedding takes place in the snow on Frigga’s day, sun shining down on them like an approval from the Gods, and her family is here.

Oddly enough, her father did not throw a fit when she informed him of the upcoming wedding. She supposes he saw it coming from the moment he met her again in Winchester. Her brother sent dark looks at her soon to be husband for a while but it made him look more ridiculous than anything else, so she teased him once and whispered in his ear that she herself threatened Sigtryggr’s balls were he to ever cheat on her or hurt her in any way.

That gets a smile out of her pious brother.

He is the one performing the sacred ceremony, as the closest gothic is weeks away on horse-back, and he has been taught the traditions of Viking wedding.

Eadith, now married, can participate in the rituals just before the wedding, and thus she is the one to braid her hair and make it exceptional.

Uhtred gives her Gisela’s bridal crown, which brings tears to her eyes.

They pronounce their vows and swear to the Gods, and nothing could make Stiorra happier, except receiving her husband in their house after the ceremony, welcoming him between the furs and tasting the groans on his lips when he lets go of his so precious self-control and worships her like she never dreamed of.

All in all, this day might be the best of her life yet.

Aethelflaed travels from Mercia the day after with Aelfwyn to offer congratulations and probably speak of legal arrangements between Eoferwic and Aelesburgh.

Stiorra discovers this when the little girl surges into her arms in the middle of the feast, and the woman is surprisingly glad to see her. She has lived with her for so long, being apart was odd.

So she leaves her husband with a kiss and makes her way through the dancing crowd to go see Aethelflaed for herself, to welcome her, except when she enters the tent, the Lady is kissing her father like her life depends on it.

“Eww,” she exclaims, and they break apart right as she runs away, cackling like a mad woman.

Eadith squeals when Finan dips her at the sound of the music, laughing wildly like it is his essence, Osferth playfully dances with Aelfwyn, her brother snorts his ale through his nose when Sihtric tells a dirty joke, Uhtred and Aethelflaed come out of the tent a few moments later, and both blush when she raises her ale cup at them with a snicker.

She jumps on Sigtryggr - her _husband_ \- as soon as he comes into view, and she kisses him senseless despite her smile. When they pull away, he asks, a little dazed:

“What was that for ?”

Stiorra shrugs, still beaming, fingers playing with his hair and the necklace falling on his tunic.

“For all that was meant to be.”

Her father was right.

Destiny is all.


End file.
